


Twilight’s Dome of Fretted Gold

by cassieoh



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gabriel is a DICK yall, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), I promise, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Other, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Rodeo AU, bronc rider crowley, but they're still an angel and a demon, calf roper Aziraphale, i promise it still makes sense, she's just as confused about that as you might expect, the Bentley is a horse, the happiest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23036020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/pseuds/cassieoh
Summary: A love letter from me to the Texas desert. A love story between an angel and a demon (in a semi-human sense of those words). A lot of horses and more than a few cows.A single javelina.AKA: The Rodeo AU in which, after the Apocalypse failed to happen, Gabriel embraces his American corporation and find a unique punishment for Aziraphale (and Hastur isn't an especially creative demon, so he copies Gabriel's homework).
Relationships: Aziraphale & Cahariel, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Cahariel
Comments: 41
Kudos: 97
Collections: Can't no preacher man save my soul





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “...[a] violet crown bathed in the radiance of the morning or
> 
> arched with twilight’s dome of fretted gold.”
> 
> (William Brann, in The Iconoclast, Issue 1, 1895)

_"I am afraid I do not understand." Cahariel very rarely felt slow or stupid. She had worked in the Archives of Heaven for the last, well, for the last forever. She was tasked with ensuring that every single written word the humans produced was categorized and filed and cross-indexed and then put away never to be extracted from the Archive again. People did not want the small fragments and words she collected, all the glory was in the novels and poetry and other grand works that the angels in the Library collected. The general disinterest Heaven had for the scraps she curated meant hers was an ultimately fruitless task; there had never been a single request for information in the entirety of her posting._

_Archangel Gabriel sighed, heavy and clearly frustrated, "What is there to understand, Guardian?" Cahariel tried not to wince, the Archangel's use of her title was a pointed reminder that they could not be further apart in status._

_"I apologize," Cahariel whispered. "I only meant that, well, surely there is another who might be more effective? I've not left the Archives in eons."_

_Gabriel laughed and clapped one hand down on Cahariel's shoulder. The Guardian forced herself to stand still and not buckle under the disproportionate weight of his grip._

_"That's just it!" Gabriel said. He was smiling now, all teeth and Cahariel felt herself returning the gesture against her will. "You need to get out there! Explore the Earth. You've been stuck in these dusty old shelves for too long, kid."_

_"I like my shelves," Cahariel said without thinking. Of course, even if she had paused to think she couldn’t have said anything different; after all, it was a core truth about the Guardian Angel of Little Words. She liked her endless rows of shelves and the smell of the tomes and the way the ancient stones covered in pictograms felt beneath her fingertips, still warm with the love the humans had poured into their most humble scratchings._

_Gabriel's grip tightened briefly before he released her, his face creased into a huge smile._

_"I'm sure you do," he said, "But, we have a far more important task for you than these trivial things."_

_Cahariel felt a sensation she'd never felt before, a sort of sinking, swirling feeling in the center of her corporation. She couldn't find any words to respond to him, but it did not matter, he was barreling forward anyway._

_"You're going to go to Earth," Gabriel said, "We have a new charge for you to Guard and if you perform well, there's talk of a promotion for you."_

_The weird feeling in Cahariel's center was growing worse. She did not want to go to Earth, did not want to-_

_"Who will watch my Archives?" She asked, "Who is to be assigned to collect the-"_

_Gabirel waved one hand dismissively, "Oh, I think it can get along without anyone for a bit. It's hardly important work after all. Now, hurry along to the- "_

_Oh. Cahariel recognized the feeling now._

_She was afraid._

* * *

The winds had come up over the low hills as the sun slowly reached its apex, the relentless rays beating down upon the parched earth, turning the entire valley into a convection oven. The low rasp of wind through the scrub-brush wasn’t nearly loud enough for Aziraphale’s comfort. He yearned for cicadas and the low, continuous thrum of the nesting chuck-will’s-widow outside windows thrown wide to tempt a humid breeze. Here, so far from the ocean or the wetlands or even a crick, Aziraphale felt half desiccated; like if he took even a single additional breath of dry air he was going to crumble to dust.

Needless to say, Aziraphale had never especially liked this part of the circuit. In fact, each year he vowed to skip this portion and instead spend a few weeks at home, resting up and doing only light exercises with Moiselle in preparation for the championship season, and each year he found himself making the miserable pilgrimage out to the desert having failed to earn enough scratch to make the lists.

He took a long draw of tepid water from the metal water bottle he always kept with him out here and grimaced. Oh, he missed a proper nectar soda, cool and creamy and overflowing with almond and vanilla. Nothing else could quite manage to quench this sort of desperate thirst.

Beside him, Moiselle huffed out a long, slow breath. She shifted forward, pressing her cream-pink nose against his side. Despite the heat and his misery, he smiled.

“Ah, uh, Fell?” The beleaguered vet tech at the front of the line called out, her accent drawing the vowel out until it was almost _fee-ul_. Aziraphale gave Moiselle a pat on the nose and took up her lead.

“Hello there,” he said as pleasantly as he could manage with the words sticking to his dry tongue as he forced them out.

The young woman looked up from her list, then back down, before looking up again, her eyes wide.

“Uh,” she said and Aziraphale knew exactly what the problem was.

“I assure you,” he said with a big smile, the kind he knew made his eyes crinkle and people shift uncomfortably around him. “I’m the man you’re looking for.”

“Right,” the vet tech said. She looked down at her clipboard and then up at Moiselle who was leaning over Aziraphale’s shoulder, giving her the sort of once over Aziraphale knew typically preceded attempted bitings. He leaned back slightly so she could feel him pressing against her chest, a subtle warning and a distraction from her intent. “I need to, uh, check your horse for-,” she flipped slightly frantically through the pages in her hands, “health?”

Aziraphale resisted the urge to sigh.

“Ma’am, you look, if you don’t mind my sayin’ it, a bit lost,” he said as politely as he could manage. It came out less than entirely civil, but really, what else could anyone expect with this sort of heat curdling all hope of human decency?

The young woman looked up at him with frightened eyes, as if she’d been caught out doing something she shouldn’t be doing.

“S-sir?” she stammered.

When Aziraphale was a younger man, less prone to leisurely relaxation on porches and more eager to get out and explore the world, he’d snuck across the patch and across the fence into Mama Grenell’s back forty. Her family had been peach farmers back in the day, before the Depression, and a few of the trees were still thriving even after decades of neglect. He’d loved to slip across a broken section of fencing, keeping as low as he could to avoid being spotted. If he was lucky he’d make it all the way to the small stand of trees where he’d then sprawl out on the soft earth, a book in hand and more peaches than he could possibly eat around him.

If he wasn’t lucky, Mama Grenell would be watching and he’d wake from the inevitable peach-and-heat induced nap to crossed arms, a deep set scowl, and the ever present, bitter tang of cigarette smoke that followed her everywhere.

He’d always greeted her in the exact same sort of stammer this tech seemed unable to shake. He didn’t like to think that he looked as unpleasant as Mama Grenell (because it might be impolite to say, but the entire Grenell clan was downright nasty).

He forced his smile into something far more genuine.

“What’s your name, darlin’?” he asked.

Her eyes did something very complicated that made him a tad queasy before she closed them tightly. She took a sharp breath in through her nose.

“Harry,” she said after a long moment. It sounded like it hurt her to admit.

He frowned.

“Is... is that the name you want me to call you?” Times were changing and the circuit wasn’t nearly as hostile as it had been in the past. Aziraphale had never been anything but open about his life and as such had often found himself as a sort of unofficial guardian angel for young people just discovering who they were and the ways the world might react to that knowledge. He’d heard that same hesitation before.

For the first time since calling his name, she met and held his gaze. Her eyes were the most lovely color, he thought, the lightest brown at the center that slowly darkened to nearly black at the edges.

“What?” she breathed.

He smiled at her. He knew his smile was a good one, it crinkled the corners of his eyes in a way that could only be pleasant and he’d always rather liked the shallow dimple on his right cheek.

She smiled back, though she seemed a tad confused about it.

“I’ll call you whatever you want me to, dear,” he explained, “You don’t have to use a name you dislike.”

“I,” she paused and swallowed. Glancing upwards briefly before her eyes met his again. “I don’t _not_ like it. It’s just.... New. It’s new. I just, uh, I just picked it.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale chuckled, “Then, I do apologize. I shouldn’t have assumed. You just sounded so-”

“Thank you,” she said before he could finish speaking. “They didn’t tell me you were-” Her eyes widened. “What I mean to say is, the, uh- the old vet! Right! The vet before me didn’t say you were nice. That’s nice. I mean you are. No, wait, I-”

Aziraphale reached out and clasped her shoulder. She flinched violently. He pulled back, holding up his open hand and stepping back slightly.

“Ah, I’m making a right mess of this,” he said. He took off his hat and ran his free hand through sweat soaked hair. He knew it would look terrible, but there were no older relatives here to scold him for looking like a ragamuffin in public and the slight breeze that ruffled the now vertical strands was divine.

“No! No-”

“I shouldn’t have touched you without asking,” Aziraphale said, “So, that’s two apologies I owe you. I think that means I actually owe you a beer.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she said, “I’m the one who, uh, was weird?”

“You weren’t being weird at all, darlin’.” He smiled again, “I know I don’t have to, but I want to. And I didn’t say before, but Harry is a lovely name. It suits you well.”

She beamed at him.

“Thank you, sir,” she said. Then, she glanced at her clipboard one final time and said, “Maybe you can show me where drinks are after I check your horse’s health.” As before, she said ‘health’ as if it were a foreign word she couldn’t quite wrap her tongue around.

He laughed. She was an odd one and he liked her for it.

“That sounds finer than frog’s hair.” He’d always loved a good turn of phrase and the way people reacted to them, particularly the more over-the-top ones in his arsenal. Harry was no exception. The image startled a laugh from her and for the first time since joining the line, Aziraphale forgot the heat.

* * *

There was a scorpion on his nose. Crowley thought, distantly, that he should probably feel concerned about that. But, really, it was a big ol’ fucker and he was very, very hungover. So, instead of yelling or cursing, he closed his eyes once again. The sun really was obscenely bright and even his (stolen) sunglasses couldn’t quite keep up. The scorpion twitched one pointy leg and his face twitched in automatic response. He wasn’t concerned, the big ones hurt like a sonnuva bitch but he’d hardly even swell up and besides, it wasn’t like he was riding today. Not if Hastur had anything to say about it[1].

So, he continued to ignore his new companion and instead carefully stretched his arms above his head. His bare shoulders scraped across the rough earth as he shifted. He would start to burn soon, he thought almost reflexively. It was an odd thought, one that recurred anytime he was outside for too long, but that seemed completely pointless. Crowley had never gotten so much as a brush of sunburn his entire life. He wondered where the thought was coming from- where the instinctive fear of burning originated....

Then the scorpion took another step forward and Crowley decided enough was enough and he’d rather not get stung in the eye today. He took a slow, deep breath, reveling in the way the dry air filled him to the brim even as his ribs pressed into the ancient riverbed. Then, lightning fast, he swiped one hand across the face and rolled in the opposite direction. The scorpion landed with a harmless puff of dust not five feet away.

Crowley watched it regain its feet and scramble towards the closest prickly pear for shelter.

“You’re welcome!” he called after it, “Coulda squashed you!” That was a lie, but Crowley thought it was alright because the scorpion wouldn’t be coming back anyway.

Well, he was awake now, as little as he wanted to be. He supposed that meant he should go check the pull assignments for the night, maybe he actually _wouldn’t_ be completely screwed over this time. He snorted at the thought. As if. He pressed his hands to the cracked Earth and levered himself to his feet, enjoying the rough scratch against the calloused pads of his fingers.

When he was finally something approximating vertical, he paused long enough to brush the remaining dirt from his jeans and pull a wayward bit of spear-grass out of his hair before turning on his heel and beginning the long trek back to his tiny airstream. The heat was wonderful, filling him to the brim with energy and banishing the last dregs of hangover from his mind, but he would need to take at least a spitbath before going to check the lists. No need to piss off anyone more than he already did and stinking to high heaven was one great way to manage that.

His trailer was parked as far away from the rest of the competitors as he was allowed by whatever spot in the road town they were currently in. In part it was because he hated to be anywhere near Hastur and would happily walk a bit more if it gave him privacy, and in part it was because he liked to be able to sit outside the door and look out at the world and bask in the feeling of being _alone_. There was something about the loneliness that jangled against his nerves, setting his teeth on edge. It was so powerful that it drove out all the other worries and anxieties and doubts that constantly plagued him.

He paused outside his trailer long enough to deposit his sunglasses in the Folgers can on the first fold-down step. They clattered against the broken lenses and the small pebbles he seemed to always find in his pockets. Light filtered into his trailer through the tiny windows, illuminating the soft leaves of the army of potted plants he hauled with him from town to town.

"Evening," he muttered to the collection, "I see none of y'all've kicked it while I was gone. Good work I guess." He poked at the delicate curl of a fern, watching dispassionately as it twitched and folded up away from him. The soil was still damp, but he'd need to mist them all down before sleeping.

He pulled his jeans off and wiped himself down with a damp washcloth, taking a few extra moments for each armpit and to wipe the dust from his shoulders. Then, he rummaged about the tiny closet, searching for his cleanest shirt. Upon discovering that even the cleanest was still solidly woofy, he resolved to spend the next morning at the laundromat.

Once dressed, he took a moment to finger comb his hair before rebraiding it and tying it off with a thin leather thong. Then, he cast around, looking for his- ah! He leaned over the minifridge and snagged his hat, beating the dust from it as he pulled it from where it had fallen. He tried not to take it with him when he was drinking with the other roughstock riders, that was a sure way to lose a good hat, but he still had a pounding headache and wasn't about to forgo any help he could find.

Then, hat and clean shirt on, hair a blazing river down the center of his back, Crowley exited his trailer into the late morning heat and made his way towards the arena offices.

* * *

Harry wasn't used to feeling much of anything save benign good cheer and the mild pride to be found in a job well done in the Glory of Her Name. Those were her only emotions for longer than she cared to admit. Then, things changed and she changed with them. Or rather, she was discovering that she was changing with them.

She'd laughed with Aziraphale. A genuine, throaty laugh that bubbled up quite without her permission when he'd reached the punchline of his take about the first time he tried to fly[2]. The laugh had taken her by surprise and she must have moved her new corporation's face in a strange way because Aziraphale had taken one look at her and begun laughing himself.

She'd never laughed with anyone before.

She'd always wondered what it felt like. So many of the poems and crumpled bits of stories and funny pictures the humans created depicted laughter.

Harry had never realized just how good it would feel.

"Ah, butter my butt and call me a biscuit," Aziraphale said (and Harry was proud to realize she recognized he was using the phrase as a joke). "Is that really the time?"

Harry did not have to look at the clock, she always knew what time it was; a constant awareness of the position of the sun and the moon and each and every star that she couldn't close her unearthly eyes against.

"I think it is," she said in lieu of any of that.

Aziraphale stood, taking out his wallet. Harry thought she should probably protest, she'd seen the humans do that, but she still wasn't quite sure how money worked.

"My apologies, ma'am," Aziraphale said. "I booked one of the arenas for the next few hours to work Moiselle out and I should be going." He downed the last of his sweet tea[4], picked up his hat and, holding it in his left hand, held out his right to her.

She stared at it.

Aziraphale smiled at her (he did that a lot, she thought. It was nice in a way Gabriel's smile never seemed to be) and lowered the hand.

"I'd best be off, but I hope to see you around, Miss Harry. It was a genuine pleasure." Then, he tipped his hat and slipped through the bustling crowd and from the little café.

Harry watched him retreat until she was sure he was gone. Then she pulled out the little notebook she'd Miracled for herself the night before. She wrote down everything she could remember about their conversation, delighting in both the fresh memories and the glide of the pen across the paper.

"You a new reporter on the circuit?" A low voice drawled from her left. Harry whipped her head up, staring at the angular features and bright red hair of the man sliding into the seat next to her. He tapped the bartop to get the waitress' attention before pointing to Harry's tea and holding up two fingers. When he turned away, Harry could see the flash of a sulfur ink tattoo, just peeking between the tendrils of curly hair that escaped their braid.

Harry was frozen, petrified. Gabriel hadn't, no one had- surely they didn't know, how could they not have told her?

Why was there a demon in Texas? Much less here? This was meant to be Aziraphale's punishment, surely Hell had no business with that?

The demon nodded its thanks to the waitress' and drank deeply from the first of the two cups. Ice clinked against the thick, textured plastic and the smell of simple syrup was overwhelming.

"So," the demon said, seemingly unaware of her fear, "New reporter girl, yeah? What the devil're you doing here?"

* * *

Footnotes

1Hastur always had something to say about it- the asshole bitched more than a tomcat in a rocking chair factory- “Don’t do that, Crawly. Ride that one Crawly. Of course I know that’s not your name Crawly, but I’m a pig-headed canker-sore given vague sentience and I’m God’s punishment for your crimes.”[return to text]

2Lowercase-f, not upper. Aziraphale had no memory of his wings or the pleasure that could be found in wind lifting one's primaries. Harry tried very hard not to think on how the thought of those memories made her feel[3].[return to text]

3If she was meant to record knowledge, to make sure nothing was ever forgotten, how could she ever know her job was well done when Heaven so readily stole memories from their own?[return to text]

4In the end, Aziraphale had said perhaps it was a bit early for those beers he owed her. Harry, who hadn't had very many Earth beverages yet, quickly agreed and soon discovered that she adored the cool, sugary drink.[return to text]


	2. Everything That I Got

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [sosobriquet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sosobriquet/pseuds/sosobriquet) for her horse/rodeo betaing, i would be lost without her.

She hadn’t been on Earth long, but Harry was already finding herself attached to her body. It wasn’t the most striking, being of middling height and weight. But, she thought it was nice enough to look at and she’d certainly enjoyed the way the long black hair felt when she brushed it out that morning. Her favorite feature was the smattering of freckles dusted across the light brown skin. She’d spent nearly an hour that morning tracing little lines between them, delighting in finding shapes and sigils, little touchstones of divinity on her Earthly form. 

All of this is to say, she really would prefer to not be discorporated by the demon currently drinking sweet tea less than two feet away. 

It rattled the cup it was drinking from, sending the ice cascading towards its mouth. Then, with what seemed like great relish, it caught up one of the cubes and bit into it with a loud crunch. Harry turned away to hide her wince. 

“Well,” the demon drawled, dragging out the word, “Gotta say, you’re not very chatty for a reporter. What, cat gotchur tongue?” It flicked its tongue at her and she thought she could see its eyes crinkling behind the dark sunglasses it wore. 

She could not speak. What should her last words be? Would she be sent back to Earth? What if she was demoted? She hadn’t wanted to leave her Archive and she was terribly worried about what was becoming of all the wonderful, perfect little things humans were saying without her there to herd them into something resembling order. But... well, now that she was here... 

She didn’t want to be discorporated. She missed Heaven terribly, but a body was an Earthly thing and she wasn't quite done having one of those. 

The demon began drinking from the second tea, its eyes still on her. After another few seconds, it sighed and turned away, facing the narrow area where the waitresses scurried back and forth. 

“Sorry,” it muttered, “Didn’t mean to overstep.” Another long draw of tea. Harry could smell the sugar on its breath as it went on, “Not often we get new faces on the circuit, s’all.” 

It finished the last of the second cup and took a moment to fish about with two long fingers for another ice cube, popping it in its mouth and crunching away. 

“No skin off my back if you don’t wanna talk,” it said. Then, before Harry could try to speak again, it reached around behind its back and pulled a slim, beat-up paperback from the waistband of its pants. The cover was, from what she could see, dominated by someone wearing nothing more than the skin the Good Lord had granted them, along with a strategically placed bandana, and a white cowboy hat. The title, just barely legible through the tape holding the cover together, was _Whipped into Shape_ , and according to the spine it was the seventh in the _The Long and Short of the Llano Estacado Longrider_ series.

The demon pulled out a scrap of paper from the center and set it on the counter, slumping low on its barstool as it began reading, two fingers tracing slowly along each line. 

There were words written on the paper, a narrow scrawl that Harry couldn’t quite make out. She wanted that piece of paper. 

Needed it. 

There were no little words filling her head, no new things to marvel over or catalog. 

The demon paused in its reading, looking over where the waitress had reappeared with a menu in her hand. 

“Anythin’ to eat for you, darlin’?” she asked it. “You’re all skin and bone.” 

The demon shook its head and opened its mouth, but Harry didn’t hear what it said—she was already halfway across the dinner, the scrap of paper shoved deep in her pocket and her heart racing. 

* * *

Crowley watched the strange reporter beat a quick retreat in his peripheral vision. He felt strangely forlorn to see her go, as if he’d missed more than he realized in their short conversation, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what he’d done to insult her. There must have been _something_. Crowley liked to think of himself as a pretty charming guy, or at least charming-adjacent. In the same zip code as charming. Charming with some light substi- 

The point was that people who didn’t know him _liked_ talking to him. It was actually a bit annoying; he wanted to talk to the other fellas on the circuit but they seemed predisposed to dislike him while the townies were drawn to him like flies on shit. Passing conversations were all well and good and he genuinely liked the kids that flocked to the stables to watch the riders put their horses through their paces. But, that’s all they were; will-o-wisps that tempted him with the idea that he might be worthy of, well, anything at all but a tiny trailer and tinier purses and scraping out a living from the dust and the hard-packed earth. 

The waitress plonked another glass of tea in front of him, pulling Crowley from his maudlin thoughts. He shot her a smile and took the tea, trying to refocus on his book. His thoughts danced, his mind a discordant windchime clattered into unpleasant melodies by the force of his racing heart. He was spit in a skillet and as the day advanced the heat was only increasing, sending his thoughts sizzling and popping and leaving him with little solid to hold onto. 

Usually when he felt this way he’d hope to pull the meanest sonnuvabitch the lists had to offer and beat the shake from his limbs in 8-second increments. But, there were two days yet before the rodeo and he needed to find a way to make do, to shed this feeling before the mud-daubers in his lungs hollowed him out entirely. 

He took another sip of tea, blinked, and focused on the book in his hands. The Llano Estacado Longrider was his favorite of all the pulp serials crammed into the nooks and crannies of his trailer. It wasn’t what anyone could call ‘good’, or even _decent_ really [1]. The characters were flat and the stories predictable. But, in the thirteen entries he’d read before this one, the Longrider had not once taken the distressed-damsel-of-the-day up on her lusty offers. As a matter of fact, the author spent more than a few paragraphs each novel describing the way the light would hit the Longrider’s longtime compatriot—known only as _The Buckskin Buckaroo_[2]. Lovingly detailed metaphors abounded; the fall of water after a drought when the Longrider and his Buckaroo reunited or the Longrider musing about how his Buckaroo’s eyes were the same color as the whiskey they drank after meeting up for a drink in the golden hour.

Crowley liked the books a great deal. 

He’d managed to wade his way through the first third of the book before a ruckus on the opposite end of the diner drew his attention. He glanced over and saw that the waitress had it well in hand—just a mouthy tourist complaining about whatever it was they’d decided was worth ruining everyone’s day over. He eyed the other man up for a moment, trying to suss out if he was a threat to Crowley’s planned evening; some light smut novel reading, getting a bit depression-drunk on the step of his camper, and (if all went according to plan) passing out far enough away from the rest of the campers that he avoided a boot in his gut. But, the waitress had one hand on her hip and the other was gesturing pointedly and he figured she was good without him riding in on a damned white horse. 

His only hat was black anyway. Crowley wasn’t meant to play the hero. 

He managed a few more pages. Things were getting heated as the Longrider and his Buckaroo argued about who should be the one to stay behind in what was surely a deathtrap. And though Crowley knew it would all be okay[3], he still found himself caught up in worry.

“Are you gonna order anythin’ else?” 

He blinked and tried to drag his mind back into the diner. Another waitress was standing in front of him, looking very bored. She popped her gum. 

“Well?” 

“What?” 

She sighed and rolled her eyes as she pulled a vinyl-covered menu from the pile beside the register. “You’ve been here for like, I dunno, two hours? You’ve only had those teas and I’d really like to make more’na damn yankee dime today.” 

Crowley considered the idea of eating, but it made the tea slosh around unpleasantly in his gut. So, he slapped a few fives down on the counter instead and shot the waitress a sneer, offended without quite knowing why at the notion he’d stiff her. Then he ambled back outside, sighing in pleasure as the wave of hot, dry air hit him. In the distance, he could hear the racket that always meant the temporary corrals were being set up. The cowboys who weren’t already around should be arriving later in the day and the unlucky ones who hadn’t registered in time to get a stall would need to work their horses a bit before they were hitched to their trailers for the night. Making a wide arc to avoid all that, he set out for the stockyards. Most pens were already filled with cattle in preparation for the steer and heifer auctions and 4H shows that would happen during the rodeo, but a few of the larger corrals had been set aside for the cowboys’ use. 

Crowley climbed the steel bleachers, enjoying the particular hollow clang of heavy boots on thin metal until he reached the very top. There wasn't much shade to be had this time of day, but the flags had already been hung and if he leaned back against the wire fence along the top of the bleachers, they'd offer him a bit of protection from the sun. He settled back against the wires, legs hucked up on the seats the next row down and, canting his hat low over his eyes, pulled his book back out.

_"Ya can't do this," the Longrider was telling his Buckaroo. "I can't lose- You made a promise to the people of this town, Buckaroo."_

Crowley nodded along. The Buckaroo was being reckless and, for all that his motives were good, Crowley didn't like to think about how the Longrider would react to losing him. He pulled a long piece of speargrass from the brim of his hat and began to chew on it as he kept reading. In the arena below a rider had just begun to put his horse through its paces, beginning with a slow trot along the fence. Each time they passed the horse's pale coloration grabbed his eye, pulling him away from the book. 

After the third pass, he gave up altogether. His eyes and written words didn't get along on the best days, and he knew it would only end in a headache to keep trying with his attention so divided. Instead, he watched the horse and rider for a few minutes; admiring the horse’s smooth gait and the right and the way the rider seemed to anticipate her movements. Sometimes he wondered what a partnership like that would be like—what it might feel like to have someone who knew what you were thinking before you thought it yourself. Someone who liked you above everyone else and who would choose you before anyone else. He'd never had anyone like that, and the closest thing he had now to friends were, well, Hastur and Ligur. He didn't want to think on what that said about him. Dog's only as good as the ticks on his back and Crowley often felt like he was more tick than dog. 

Eventually, he sighed and stood up, checking that his hat was secure before clattering down the steps and back out into the desert. 

* * *

According to the sweat-soaked man on TV, the opening day of the Sterbin County Jamboree dawned promised to be a record-breaker. Aziraphale made sure Moiselle was cool enough in the barn but otherwise wasn't terribly worried. He'd always done well in the heat and there was little the desert could throw at him that the swamp hadn't already tried. Besides, a hot day meant slow calves and that could only mean good things for his chances at the purse. 

He had some time to kill before the anthem, and he passed it wandering the small fair that had sprung up overnight (and eating a few too many fried oreos for his belt buckle’s preference). The nervous vet tech from the previous day waved to him when he spotted her lingering near the food trucks, but by the time he managed to battle his way through the crowd she was gone. 

It was almost a relief when noon rolled around and he could justify going back to his trailer to do a bit of practice with the roping dummy and lariat. Moiselle watched him with pricked ears, knowing exactly what this routine meant. Every few passes he’d pause and give her a bit of attention, a rough knuckle down the ridge of her brow, gentle fingers in the soft spot behind her ears, a kiss to the velvet of her nose. Each was endured with the same patience she always granted him, though as the shadows grew longer she began to shift back and forth more eagerly, testing the limits how far she could move on the high line and huffing at him. 

“Easy, darlin’,” he told her. “We’ll get you all situated soon.” He understood why she was so antsy, the thrill of competition was beginning to sing through his veins as well. Back home the swamp was languid, when it moved at all. It was far more likely to be still, the only movement coming from the fish and frogs and other varmints that teemed beneath the surface. But there were places where the water was a fast and lovely thing, little fast-moving streams of clearer water that cut through algae choked pools. The last few hours before he rode always felt like his veins were filled with that water, something foreign and fast cutting through the languid whole of him. 

He could never tell if he liked the feeling, but he knew he’d miss it if he stopped feeling it; same as he knew he’d miss the cramped bed in the trailer or the taste of watered-down tea from diners along the road. 

Finally, it was time. He saddled Moiselle and they rode across to the arena proper, joining up with the other cowboys and cowgirls as they went. This rodeo was too small for a full lineup at the beginning but there was something in the tradition of riding together before competing against one another that couldn’t be denied. They exchanged few words, opting instead for tipping hats and a quiet, “Evenin’.” When they reached the open end of the arena the crowd burst into cheers, hoopin’-and-hollerin’ and stamping on the metal bleachers. A few of the horses’ ears flickered and there was some uncomfortable shuffling, but it was late enough in the season that there was little reason for any of them to spook at the racket. 

A staticy announcer led the crowd in cheering on the competitors, and then rode the applause straight into announcing the first event. 

“Gentlemen, Ladies! Cowboys and Cowgirls! Younguns! It’s time for the rodeo to begin and what better way than with the craziest cowpokes this side’a the Rio Grand?” Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He’d never bought into the whole fiction of the ‘wild and crazy bronc rider’. They were just men. Stupid men he preferred to avoid, but men all the same. Put their chaps on one leg at a time like anyone else. 

Though, he supposed they were still a damned sight smarter than bullriders. He'd never met another group of people so universally, repellently reckless.

Many of the other competitors drifted away as the first rider climbed into the chute. The announcer was going on about the horse he’d pulled, some huge thing with knives for hooves ( _if_ he was to be believed). Aziraphale didn’t give a rat’s ass about any of it, there was no reason _why_ he wasn’t riding off to find a quiet spot where he could check Moiselle’s saddle one last time. 

Except. 

The rider climbing into the chute was dressed all in black, his hat smashed low on his head as if it could hide the blaze of bright red hair that hung down his back. 

It wasn’t often you saw men with long hair on the circuit. Practicality said it wasn’t the smartest idea, and the often overwhelmingly conservative culture underlined that idea in bold permanent ink. 

Almost without thinking Aziraphale swung down from Moiselle’s saddle and approached the fence, hopping up on the lowest rung and hooking his arms over the top so he could see better. The rider was saying something to the flankmen—though Aziraphale was too far away to hear what—and when they responded he threw back his head and laughed, long and loud. 

Oh. That was… Aziraphale’s breath caught like a tuft of cotton snagged in a stickerbur. 

The sound of that laugh ignited something in him, the heat cracking a thin line down the cast iron casing around his heart. He wanted to hear it again, wanted to never stop hearing it, wanted to blink his eyes and discover he was sitting on a front porch swing with the owner of that laugh and that he’d grown old hearing it. 

Then, the rider secured his hand under the rope at the bronc’s shoulders and gave a nod. 

The door swung open and the horse broke left, careening at a sharp angle before pulling up short, gathering its legs and bursting upward in a powerful, twisting buck. The rider’s right hand was in the air as he tilted backwards, leaning into the horse’s body, his own feet up, up, and yes! He’d just marked out as the horse’s front hooves hit the ground again. 

There was only a spare moment to breathe before the horse was bucking again, this time a series of short, violent movements that gave the cowboy no time to recover at all. It took Aziraphale a moment to realize the rider was laughing again, a broad, white-toothed grin splitting his face. 

As the 8-second buzzer sounded and pickup men rushed in to steady the bronc so he could dismount, Aziraphale discovered he’d been holding his breath and took a great gulping gasp. One of the pickup men reached the rider and he pulled himself off the bronc and onto the pickup horse, strong thighs supporting him as he leaned back to pull off his hat and give the raucous crowd a mock-bow. 

The pair rode in a slow circle around the arena; passing by Aziraphale, who fought the urge to look away to hide the flush he knew stained his cheeks. The bronc rider caught his eye as he passed and his grin was electric, a moontower over a dark world. 

Aziraphale was lost. 

By the time the rider clambered off the pickup man’s horse by the chute and vanished from sight, Aziraphale felt as if he’d run a mile in Laredo in August. Shaky all over and filled with the need to do _something,_ but no idea at all what that might be. Besides finding the coldest beer he could manage and laying in the center of a corral until his hands stopped trembling. Moiselle, when he turned to look at her, looked deeply unimpressed. 

“What?” he asked, voice creaky, “Oh shuddup. You, missy, have no room to talk after the way you went doe-eyed for that fancy stallion in Tuscaloosa.” 

She snorted at him and he laughed, taking up her reins to join the other calf-ropers in their staging area. 

He wondered if the red-haired man liked waffles. Aziraphale always craved waffles after an event.

* * *

Footnotes:

1. In fact, the nicest thing any reviewer had said about the series was “I’d use this to prop my coffee table up or smack my ass into gear, a solid novel if not enjoyable to read”↩

2. The series was, to reiterate, not good↩

3. He’d read the series completely out of order, devouring any which one he could get his hands on in thrift shops and garage sales. Which meant there were few surprises left for him, but somehow he thought he preferred it that way. Life was surprising enough, literature didn’t need to be as well.↩


	3. One More Helping of What I Been Havin’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When it's my turn to march up to old glory  
> I'm gonna have one hell of a story  
> That's if he forgives me  
> Oh, lord please forgive me

It turned out that the diner did not serve waffles, much to Aziraphale’s bitter disappointment. They did, however, serve hotcakes with clabber cheese and cling peach preserves alongside bottomless cups of the worst decaf he’d ever drunk, which he supposed was an acceptable compromise. He’d secured himself a booth in the back corner and was pressed into the spot between the wall and the cracked vinyl contentedly eating his meal and putting off heading for the stables. Moiselle was happily put up and rubbed down and had likely already finished eating and making a mess of her rented stable for him to clean up when he’d forced himself off his ass. 

“Oh no! Not you again! Don’t gimme that hangdog shit, if you’re not fixin’ to buy nothin’ you can git.” 

Aziraphale looked up, then, when it was clear that the waitress had it all well in hand, tuned the ruckus out in favor of trying to identify which sort of peach the preserves were made from. 

“I was gonna leave a tip,” someone muttered from the end of his table. “Big one.” 

Aziraphale did not respond. He’d never much taken to being around drunks and this man reeked of cheap booze. The stranger seemed to take his silence as an argument because he hitched himself over, nearly far enough to topple into the booth itself, and yanked what appeared to be water-damaged paperback from his waistband. 

“Look,” he said, rifling through the pages until a handful of twenties fluttered to the tabletop. Aziraphale stared at them and then up at the man. 

“You were gonna tip her twenty bucks?” he asked. Who tipped that much without buying anything at all? Just for the privilege of sitting in a diner that was rapidly beginning to stink of sweat and horse as more cowboys filtered in.

The man shrugged. “Twenty, if at’s all she’d take. Planned to leave all of it,” he trailed off, tilting his head to the side like a coonhound catching a whiff on the breeze. He was wearing reflective sunglasses (despite the fact that the sun had set hours ago) but Aziraphale still got the feeling he’d suddenly realized they didn’t know each other. 

“Who’re y’all?” 

“Aziraphale Fell,” Aziraphale told him, setting down his fork and holding out one hand to shake. 

“That’s a ten dollar name, if I ever heard it.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and picked up his fork again. “My parents were religious.” He thought about explaining where it came from, but he had a strong suspection that if he said much more, he’d find the man to be a sticker-burr in his sock. 

“Whose weren’t?” Aziraphale had to give him that. His name might be a mite bit odder than most, but he’d not spent any more time sweating in church than any other young man in his town. 

“M’Crowley,” the man said. “Y’all mind if I-?”

Aziraphale sighed, but gestured with his knife to the seat across from him. He watched as the man, as  _ Crowley,  _ neatly piled the bills back into a rough stack and then looked around the diner. 

“Was she your girl as well?” 

“What?” Dammit, how did he keep drawing Aziraphale into speaking? He just wanted to finish his supper and take care of Moiselle so he could sleep. Maybe he’d even be able to manage it tonight. 

The man smiled at him, barely more than a twitch of the slash of his mouth, and Aziraphale was poleaxed to realize he wasn’t half-bad to look at. His eyes were hidden by the sunglasses, but Aziraphale could see the pinched arch of his brows behind them. Pinched, he thought, that was a good word for Crowley. Pinched, parched, the edge of the grasslands in drought; everything about him was an arroyo in high summer; smooth skin that looked more liketa burn than tan, a scatter of freckles like stones washed clear by a flash flood, and a dark prairie-fire braid. 

“Waitress,” Crowley said, gesturing with the book. “Was she yours too?” 

Aziraphale leaned back, trying to follow the angle of the bent spine across the crowded room. 

“Ah, yeah, I think so.” 

Crowley tapped the spine of the book on the table. “Aces,” he drew the word out. Then, before Aziraphale could tear his eyes away from the way Crowley’s long fingers cradled the stained book, he stood and tapped the book again. This time, the pile of bills slid from where he’d hidden it in the middle. 

“Thank her for me,” Crowley said, tipping an imaginary hat to Aziraphale. “See ya around, angel.” 

Aziraphale snorted, started to realize Crowley hadn’t needed the explanation of where his name came from after all. He glanced down at the money and by the time he looked up to ask if Crowley was sure about leaving that much (it was far more than even the twenty Aziraphale had been startled by), the other man was already nearly at the door. 

Just before exiting, Crowley turned back over his shoulder and the bright light over the entrance, lighting his hair prickly pear red. He grinned at Aziraphale, teeth straight and white and Aziraphale realized he’d been the cowboy from before, the one he’d been so taken with. 

“You’re a damned fool, Fell,” he muttered to himself, cursing his anti-social nature. There’d been his one chance to talk to the man and he’d blown it. For what? Some peace and quiet to ‘enjoy’ awful coffee and stone cold hotcakes? 

“A  _ damned _ fool.”

He touched the tips of his fingers to the pile of bills. It seemed nigh on impossible to match that feral grin with the casual kindness of a three-digit tip on an empty tab. 

It dawned on him that he wasn’t hungry anymore. He pulled his billfold out and tossed a few singles down before smiling sheepishly and adding the single twenty he had to the pile, carefully sliding the whole thing half under his plate so no passerby would take it. Then, he turned for the door. 

Maybe if he was quick, he’d be able to catch Crowley and actually talk to him. 

* * *

The thing was, Crowley liked sleep. He liked siestas and lazy mornings and ignoring the world because the sun was on his face. 

Crowley liked sleep. Sleep didn’t much like him. 

The rush he always felt after a trial had faded from punch-drunk-stupid to something closer to fire ants beneath his skin by the time he made it back from the diner to his trailer. He wanted to throw himself into his hammock and ignore the world for six to eight hours, to slip into dreams of vast deserts and super-blooms and the tiny white figure he always seemed to glimpse on the horizon but could never reach. 

But, as he sloped up to the trailer he knew he wouldn’t be getting any of those things. 

Yellow light flickered through the grimy window. The wiring had been bad for ages, but Crowley didn’t have anything worth more than a yankee dime; the trailer was crammed full of the things he’d picked up for free at various garage sales or from church rummage piles, stacks of water damaged paper backs covered every surface not already occupied by plants in plastic take out containers or old coffee tins. He wasn’t worried about fire. 

But, that didn’t mean he liked to see the light on when he’d not touched it in weeks. 

Crowley sighed and paused to adjust his boots, ensuring that the small knife he kept tucked in the left hadn’t slipped too far to reach quickly. Then he stood and, smashing his hat lower on his head, took the last few steps into the light that spilled from the open door. 

“Hastur,” he drawled as soon as he spotted the other man’s shadow. “Your mama never tell you what happens to them that trespass?” 

“They get forgiven, s’what I heard.” 

Crowley rounded the corner of the trailer. Hastur stood in the doorway, half-hunched over himself and glaring viciously out at Crowley. The last dregs of daylight had washed away as Crowley walked, forcing Hastur into backlit menace. 

“Well, neither of us is interested in that,” Crowley said. He crooked a smile up at Hastur and enjoyed the way it made the smug smile curdle on his face. 

Good. Crowley knew the bastard wasn’t about to give up whatever grudge he had, but Crowley was at least going to make it miserable for him to keep up. 

“What can I do y’for?” Crowley threw himself down in his hammock, kicking his feet up and crossing his ankles (right over left so the knife was still free). 

Hastur snarled at him and kicked out at one of the plants on the step, sending it flying out into the darkness. Crowley could hear the thin metal clanking and scraping as it rolled through the low scrub brush. He’d almost liked that plant. It was ugly and didn’t seem to mind when he couldn’t get a parking spot with good sun, stubbornly thriving anyway. 

He’d liked that plant and Hastur had just killed it. 

“Aw, you just missed,” Crowley said, knowing Hastur was stupid enough to look down. As soon as he did, Crowley reached up and casually loosed the knife from its sheath, slipping it into his hand and then leaning over as if he’d only been shifting his weight to get more comfortable. 

Hastur seemed to realize Crowley had been pulling his leg, because he looked up and took a threatening step forward, fist balling up at his side. 

“You little–,” his words sputtered to a halt when he saw the knife in Crowley’s hand. 

“Hastur, I don’t know what the devil I did that’s got you madder’n a wet hen, but I think it’s time you got back to yours.” He held Hastur’s poisonous gaze with his own, grin still firmly affixed to his face. “I ain’t kidding.” He twisted the knife a little in his fingers, letting it catch the yellow light from the trailer. 

“Go on,” Crowley said when Hastur didn’t move after a long moment. “Git.” 

The other man growled and kicked out at another of Crowley’s plants, before turning on his heel and stalking out into the night. Crowley watched him go in silence. Then, as soon as he was sure he was once more alone, he stood from the hammock and reached into the trailer to shut off the light. 

Immediately, stars spilled across the night sky, a celestial mirror for the arc of dark soil left behind by the plant Hastur had killed. 

Crowley nodded to the sky and slipped the knife back into his book. Then, he crouched in the dirt and tried to see if there was anything at all left of the plant that he could salvage. 

He might be total shit at living life like any other human, but he was good at plants and broncs and he’d be damned if he let Hastur take either of those away from him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year friends <3 One of my biggest resolutions this year is to update more frequently with shorter chapters, so in that spirit; voila. Thank yall for everything this last year, your comments mean the world.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr <3](https://cassieoh.tumblr.com/)   
>  [Art for rodeomens](https://cassieoh.tumblr.com/tagged/rodeomens)


End file.
